God, in a Random Thought

God, in a Random Thought

Every morning, when I wake up, a thought comes to my mind. It’s a thought. Or, it’s a dream. It’s the time when I am the purest. Kindest. Happiest too. It is the time when round, plump and glistening dew drops on a soft lotus leaf invite me to talk silently. To be a part of it. It tells me, don’t worry, your dream is all right. It says, you may not believe in God, but that is your God. That thought. That dream. That is God. Because it is pure. I get distracted by other, less important and more mundane thoughts during the course of the day. Then again, when I go back to sleep at night, I get excited. Because I know, next morning, when I wake up, it will come back to me again. I close my eyes, and wait for that moment.

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Sylvia Plath, angel poet.

How do you write poetry?

How do you paint a painting? You need training. You need to learn the craft. You need the intensity. Inspiration. Passion. But it’s more. Much more. It’s like when early in the morning, you must go. You know you have to go. Crude? Vulgar? So what? That’s how poetry comes. Art comes. Your first public speech comes. It builds inside. Uses your blood, food and gut. It takes a shape. And it happens because you have done something for it. Cried for it. You have now come to a point when it happens. It will happen. Naturally. Don’t force it. Embrace it, with closed eyes. It’s a spiritual experience. Bliss.

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The other angel.

A Prayer and More.

9/11 “Dust Lady” Marcy Borders died this week of cancer at the age of 42. Many people have remembered the terrorist attack, but forgotten the lies and hush-ups that came with it. Bush, Giuliani and EPA director Christine Todd Whitman, along with big media, all lied to us that everything was safe, and there was no potential health threats. They sent kids back to school on Ground Zero when the fire was still burning, and asbestos was free floating in the air. Chuck Schumer’s wife who worked for the city DOT made the toxic dumps barged next to Stuyvesant High School. Now, with Marcy’s death, I hope people revisit the potentially catastrophic health bomb to explode on our children. And challenge the authorities — Republican and Democrat — on their lies.

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Sarah N. Cleghorn, my girlfriend.

Post Script.

“The golf links lie so near the mill

That almost every day

The laboring children can look out

And see the men at play.”

— Sarah N. Cleghorn, American poet, and a Christian socialist. She wrote it in 1917.